


Astuary Queen

by morningsound15



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctors AU, F/F, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12608376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: Clarke snorted. “We get new doctors like every other month, O. This guy’s not gonna be any different.”Octavia glared. “First of all, internalized misogyny, the new attending is a woman, not a man. Women can be doctorstoo,Clarke.” Clarke rolled her eyes, but Octavia soldiered on. “Andsecondly,did I already mention that she’s smoking hot? Because she issmoking hot.I heard Murphy talking about her with—”Clarke scoffed. “Murphy’s a pig. He thinkseveryoneis hot.”“I mean…” Octavia trailed off. “Well… yeah, duh, but I Googled her this morning and—” Octavia whistled under her breath, her eyes gleaming with teasing mirth. “I cannot state this enough, Princess. Doctor Woods is a fucking fox.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got the inspiration for this story when I was watching Scrubs. Because of that, I took some plot points, lines, and a few exchanges of dialogue from that show. Mostly because I don’t know anything about medicine. So I’m sorry about that in advance.
> 
> Also, I’m sorry to everyone waiting on updates for my other stories. I know the last thing I need is another WIP. But this one just wouldn’t leave me alone.
> 
> Come talk to me on [ tumblr.](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)

____________________

Clarke had been studying to be a doctor for what felt like her entire life. That wasn’t entirely accurate, obviously; it wasn’t like you could study to be a doctor when you were 3. But because of who her parents were… well, it was hard not to feel like a profession in the medical field was more or less predetermined. And she hated the thought of destiny (it diminished and reduced the notion of free will), but… well. Medicine had always been her future. She’d known that ever since she was little.

Twelve years of public school, four years at a top university, four years of medical school, and here she was — in the midst of her residency, in the prime of her life, and struggling with increasingly prevalent feelings of a lack of fulfillment.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t _happy_ to be where she was, to be in this hospital, to be working in one of the most prestigious and respected fields imaginable. It wasn’t like she didn’t get fulfilment out of every patient she helped, every disease diagnosed, every life extended. It just all felt so… well, she hesitated to use the word ‘predictable’ but. Yeah. _Predictable_.

She didn’t want to sound ungrateful or spoiled or anything. Her life was pretty stellar, as far as lives go.

But she couldn’t help but feel just the tiniest bit stuck.

(Maybe she _should_ have gone to art school, a thought she had toyed with when she was halfway through undergrad. She almost did it, too; almost dropped out of school to apply to some legitimate programs, until… Until her dad died and, well… he was a doctor, too. And she felt a responsibility to honor his legacy.)

A tray slammed down onto the table in front of her, jolting Clarke from her reverie. She blinked several rapid times, shaking her head as she picked her chin off of her upright fist. Octavia slid into the seat opposite her and shot Clarke a pointed look. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Clarke feigned ignorance, picking up her Styrofoam cup of cafeteria coffee as if she was actually going to drink it.

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Doing that thing where you look like you’d rather be anywhere in the world but here.” She picked up the banana on her tray and started to slowly peel it. “So what’s got you so down at—” she glanced at her watch— “8:30 on a Tuesday morning?”

“Can’t I just be unhappy that I’m at work at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning?” Clarke sighed and sniffed at her cup of coffee before grimacing and putting it down again. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

Octavia frowned disbelievingly. “Y’can’t fool me, Griff,” she said, chomping down at the yellow fruit clutched in her fist. “You’ve been mopey and dragging your feet around for _weeks_.” Clarke opened her mouth to protest but Octavia pointed her half-eaten banana menacingly. “And don’t try to lie about it, either, because I live with you, so I should know all about your moods.”

Clarke sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know,” she said after a long moment. “I’m just feeling a little… trapped, I guess?”

“Because of what happened with Finn?”

Clarke sighed again and looked down, fiddling with her hands. “No, not… not really.” A short pause. “I don’t know.” She took a breath and glanced up at her friend. “Maybe?”

Octavia shook her head and took another bite out of her fruit. When she spoke, she spoke around a mouth full of yellow mush. “Finn was great and all, Clarke, but you _know_ things weren’t right between you.” Octavia swallowed thickly. “He couldn’t even handle your hours during your residency. Imagine what it would have been like if you guys had stayed together until you actually become an attending.”

Clarke sighed. (She was sighing a lot, recently.) “I know, O. It’s just… _hard_. We were together like two and a half years.”

“And good riddance, I say.”

Clarke shot her a look. “That isn’t fair.”

Octavia shrugged. “What? It’s true.” She folded her banana peel in on itself and tossed it back onto her tray. “He was a good guy, Clarke, but so—” she pulled a face— “ _meh_.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “He was _not_ ‘meh.’”

Octavia wrinkled her nose and titled her head. “He was _kinda_ ‘meh,’ Clarke.”

“Well, you never liked him.”

“Yeah, because he whined all the time about you being gone and that one time at Bellamy’s birthday party he threw up all over my couch.”

“That was _years_ ago.”

“It was a nice couch, Clarke.”

Clarke bit her lip to stifle a laugh. She tried to keep her brow furrowed seriously but she was having significant trouble keeping the look of amusement off of her face. “I’m just saying…” She said after a moment of watching her friend pop open a plastic carton of yogurt. “It’s hard, Octavia. Even if you didn’t like him. It’s hard to go from, like… full-blown-boyfriend to just…” She gestured in front of her, her hand blindly searching for the words her brain couldn’t seem to grasp.

Octavia, though, didn’t seem to understand. “I mean I _guess_ ,” she said uncertainly. “But you’ve been broken up for like two months and also it isn’t like you’ve never been single before? So why can’t—”

“You know,” Clarke cut her off, “despite what you may think you are not exactly a very comforting person,” she deadpanned.

Octavia gasped and held her hand to her chest in mock-affront. “And to think, I was bringing you _gossip_.”

“ _I’m_ not the one who likes gossip, Octavia; that’s your brother. Go bother him.”

“Well, I _would_ , except he’s not working today and you’re my best friend, so… tough.” She pushed her tray to the side, leaning across the table to bring her that much closer to Clarke. “I promise you’re gonna like it.”

Clarke arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you promise, huh?”

“ _Yes_ , Clarke.”

“Just like you promised that I was going to like your cousin, and that I should totally let you set us up?”

“Clarke—”

“Just like you promised that you knew the way to that beach house senior year and we didn’t need to stop for directions?”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “ _Clarke_ ,” she once again implored.

Clarke held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “Wait, I have _so_ many more. Just like—”

Octavia smacked her hand away. “Get it out in therapy, will you? This is _time-sensitive_.”

Clarke scrunched up her nose, recoiling ever so slightly. “Why is it time-sensitive?” She asked suspiciously.

“Because any minute now the hot new attending who’s starting today is going to come strutting through _those_ doors—” she pointed towards the front of the cafeteria— “and _you’re_ so busy whining to me you’re gonna miss it.”

Clarke snorted and stole the now-cold bagel from Octavia’s tray. She munched on the toasted bread as Octavia stared at her with something akin to disbelief. “We get new doctors like every other month, O,” she said, waving the bagel with as much nonchalance as one could wave a bagel. “This guy’s not gonna be any different.”

Octavia glared. “First of all, internalized misogyny, the new attending is a _woman_ , not a man. Women can be doctors _too_ , Clarke.” Clarke rolled her eyes, but Octavia soldiered on. “And _secondly_ , did I already mention that she’s smoking hot? Because she is _smoking hot_. I heard Murphy talking about her with—”

“Murphy’s a pig. He thinks _everyone_ is hot.”

“I mean…” Octavia trailed off. “Well… _yeah_ , duh, but I Googled her this morning and—” Octavia whistled under her breath, her eyes gleaming with teasing mirth. She reached over and flicked the back of Clarke’s hand. “What do you say? Looking for a hot, older lady doctor to take care of you while you finish your residency?”

Clarke paused, bagel half-way to her mouth. She squinted. “How much older?”

 “Only like two years. And _super_ hot, Princess. I cannot state this enough. Doctor Woods is a fucking fox.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “ _Super_ not interested in you setting me up with a woman who is effectively my _boss_ , O.”

“She’s only _just_ finished her residency. And you’re almost done with yours! So, you know… she won’t be your boss in like… a year and a half.” Clarke shot her a look, and Octavia sighed. “Alright, I get it. That’s not the point.”

“ _So_ not the point.”

“At least look with me?” She half-whined, half-implored. “I think she’s _pretty_.”

“ _You_ date her, then.”

Octavia scoffed. “Oh please, like I would date someone we worked with.”

“What?” Clarke spluttered. “You _just_ told me to—!”

Octavia waved her silent, arm flapping wildly as she stared wide-eyed at the cafeteria doors. “Look look look look look.” She hissed, smacking Clarke on the arm (even though Clarke was already turning in her seat). “I _told_ you she was hot.”

Clarke blinked at the image that greeted her.

See, here was the thing: Octavia was certifiably ridiculous, like, 90% of the time, but… she wasn’t _wrong_. Dr. Woods was, quite possibly, the most attractive woman Clarke had ever seen.

Her coat looked like it had just been neatly pressed, and the stethoscope dangling around her neck gleamed under the harsh fluorescents, like she had pulled it from its packaging only minutes before. It provided a strong contrast to the pale blue of the simple shirt she wore beneath her white coat, which was combined with a pair of hip-hugging dress pants and some nice but sensible shoes. Every bit of her was immaculately constructed, from her light makeup to the mane of hair she had pulled up in a half-ponytail (drawn away from her face) to her short, manicured nails and smooth, unscarred hands. She had two pens poking out of the pocket of her lab coat, a watch wrapped around her right wrist, and a pair of glasses hanging from the neck of her long-sleeved tee.

But Clarke barely even _glanced_ at her outfit, because within moments of glimpsing her for the first time, all she could see was _green._

The new doctor’s eyes practically _gleamed_. They shone, bright and inquisitive, steadily circulating the room as if she were some military leader surveying a battlefield of her enemies.

There were other attractive parts of her. Clarke wasn’t blind to them. Her jawline cut an impressive line, and her cheekbones were high and sharp. Her face was thin but not overly so, her eyebrows relaxed but her gaze intense at the same time. She held herself well, with a straight back and a chest that puffed out almost imperceptibly. She looked lithe and strong, like she could hold her own in a fight. Her muscles pulled a little at the arms of her coat whenever she reached for a new food item, and Clarke’s eyes greedily tracked the flexing.

But it was those _eyes_. Something about the green of those eyes made Clarke feel like she was staring into the dark recesses of some vast forest.

She felt dazed, a little dreamy.

Those _eyes_. Clarke could get _seriously_ get lost in them, if she wasn’t careful.

A nudge to her shoulder brought her tumbling back to reality. Clarke shook her head, pulling herself from the depths of her dense and foggy mind. “I _told you_ ,” Octavia hissed under her breath.

Clarke swallowed thickly and blinked a few times before she was able to rip her gaze away from the new attending. She swiveled back around in her seat and tried to make her face a perfect mask. “Okay,” she conceded, determined to slow the pounding of her pulse before Octavia could realize just how much that woman had affected her. “Yeah, you were right. She’s hot. But I’m still not interested.”

Octavia scoffed. “Oh please. In college you would have fucked her in like… forty seconds.”

“You give me too much credit. I never had that much game.”

“I once saw _three_ different girls ditch the boys they came to a party with in order to _maybe_ get the chance to hook up with you.”

“No you didn’t. That never happened.”

Octavia nodded vehemently “Yes it did. And it was at the _same_ party! Three girls! Same party!” Octavia stared at her, wistfully. She tucked her chin into the palm of her hand and sighed. “Whatever happened to Party Girl Griffin? She was so _fun_.”

“Um, she got into med school and it started sucking up every aspect of her private life?”

Octavia hummed and picked up her tray, barely waiting to see if Clarke was going to follow after her. “Oh yeah. But it also cured your alcoholism, so… the little victories, right?”

Clarke rolled her eyes, collecting her own barely-touched breakfast and dumping it into the trashcan by the door. “You’re such an ass, O.”

Octavia wiggled her butt and shot a wink over her shoulder as she pushed through the double doors. “Yeah and isn’t it a _great_ ass?”

**

It took approximately 4 hours and 35 minutes for Clarke to decide that Dr. Woods was, in fact, potentially the most talented doctor she had ever seen in action.

In something that felt straight out of a hospital drama, Clarke watched her whip an obscure diagnosis practically out of her ass in the amount of time it took a regular person to tie their boots.

Clarke was busying herself in a ward in the East Wing of the hospital. It was nearly empty, with only one occupied bed — a middle-aged man who groaned in pain whenever he shifted position. Though he wasn’t her patient, she had already decided to check and see how serious his pain was. Just as soon as she finished the task she was actually there to do.

Clarke’s tongue poked out from between her lips as she filled out the whiteboard to the side of the room with the standard information (the patient’s name, the date, the nurse on duty, and his physician — Dr. Alexandria Woods).

No sooner had Clarke finished writing her name than the woman herself appeared in the doorway, almost as if summoned, stethoscope around her neck, pen in hand, and glasses tucked into her breast pocket.

She swept into the room, paid absolutely no attention to Clarke in the corner, and picked up the patient’s chart swiftly, with an attitude that stated very clearly: _I am in a hurry and we will not be wasting time._ Clarke was fairly certain Dr. Woods didn’t even notice there was another doctor in the room.

“Hello, Mr. Lewis, my name is Doctor Woods. How are you today?” She said, barely glancing up from the man’s chart.

“Not great, honestly,” the man said with a pained grimace.

Dr. Woods made a noise in the back of her throat. She clicked her pen three times — on off on — and scribbled something down. “Symptoms?”

Mr. Lewis frowned, clearly confused. “I’m sorry?”

Dr. Woods looked up from his chart for the first time. “Your symptoms, Mr. Lewis. What are they?”

“Oh, um…” He blinked and swallowed, wiping a little at his damp brow. “Numbness in my feet and hands. Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Headaches. Dizziness. Some chest pain.”

“Also diaphoresis.”

The man frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Excessive sweating,” Dr. Woods said, making a few more notes on his chart. “What’s your profession, Mr. Lewis?”

“Um, I’m a dentist?”

Dr. Woods tilted her head, looking up from his chart for only the second time. “Are you unsure of that fact?”

“No, I… sorry. You’re just a little intimidating?”

Doctor Woods hummed. “Yes, I’ve been told.” She closed his chart with a snap and regarded him carefully. “Nitrous oxide poisoning.”

The man blanched further. “What?”

“Laughing gas.”

“No, I know what—”

“I’m guessing you have a leaky valve somewhere in your office. You should look into that.” Doctor Woods smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Get some fresh air and you should be fine.”

“Oh, you, um… okay?”

Doctor Woods kept smiling, her expression almost robotic. “You’ll be just fine, Mr. Lewis.”

“Okay… good, then.”

Without another word Dr. Woods turned and left the room the room, leaving her bewildered patient alone with Clarke.

Clarke, who was equal parts annoyed and very impressed with Dr. Woods’ quick diagnosis. (Mostly impressed, honestly. Only a little annoyed at her abrupt attitude and speedy departure.)

She took a few steps towards the bed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Lewis,” she said, resting a reassuring hand on his forearm. “You’ll be alright in a few days. Just check for a leak at your office and maybe open all of the windows and you should be just fine.”

“Thanks.” He smiled at her, then glanced at the open door. “She’s kind of scary, isn’t she?”

“I honestly wouldn’t know. It’s my first day working with her.”

“Oh,” he muttered softly. “Well… I don’t think she has a very good bedside manner.”

Clarke bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll make sure to talk to her about that. You just get some rest, Mr. Lewis.”

Clarke left him there as she exited his room, glancing to her right at the sound of low, murmuring voices near the end of the hall. Dr. Woods stood quietly conversing with Dr. Thaye, the two women striking an intimidating figure even in the mundane banality of a hospital corridor.

Clarke eyed the new doctor carefully. She _was_ brilliant, Clarke had to give her that. But she was also cold and serious, down-to-earth and entirely focused on whatever task was in front of her. She seemed completely apathetic about patients’ feelings or their emotional wellbeing, and she hadn’t even _noticed_ Clarke was in the room with her. What kind of person doesn’t even notice their own colleague is standing not ten feet away?

That was all a little troubling, and more than a little annoying, but… Still. Dr. Woods _was_ pretty brilliant. Diagnosing nitrous oxide poisoning in a minute and a half was definitely noteworthy. And the way she looked now, white coat neatly pressed over her sharp outfit, the way her pants hugged her hips and her sweater clung to her body… She was intimidating, surely, but also impressive. Her face was serious but arresting, with her bright eyes and her cutting jawline. And the way her hair was drawn back, exposing the curve of her neck…

“She’s kinda kickass, right?”

Clarke jumped at the unexpected sound of her friend’s voice. She whirled around, catching sight of Octavia leaning comfortably against a crash cart next to room 125. She shot Octavia a glare worthy of Dr. Thaye. “ _God_ , Octavia. Stalk much?”

Octavia stuck her tongue out at her friend. “You’re the one drooling all over the place. Not my problem you can’t multitask.”

Clarke groaned and rolled her eyes. She stalked off into a patient’s room, grabbing her chart form the foot of her bed without even a glance behind her, but she didn’t need to look. Octavia trailed behind at her elbow.

Clarke smiled at the young woman in bed. “Hi—” she glanced down at the papers in front of her— “Fox. Wow, interesting name.”

The girl smiled a little, her lips quirking up to one side. “Yeah, my parents were kinda hippies.”

“Well, lucky you.” Clarke shot her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Mine thought they were having a boy, so they picked out the name and got everything ready, and it was only after I was born they realized they had a daughter.”

“They kept the name, though,” Octavia cut in quickly, throwing an arm over Clarke’s shoulders, “because they had already gotten monogrammed blankets, and that shit’s expensive to return.”

The girl’s eyes widened a little. “Sorry,” she said, glancing warily at Octavia, “but, who are you?”

“This is Doctor Blake,” Clarke supplied, gingerly stepping out from Octavia’s embrace. “She was one of the surgeons who assisted with your appendectomy.”

“Oh!” Fox exclaimed softly. “Well… thanks, then. Glad everything went well.”

Clarke smiled brightly at her. “So, how are you feeling after your surgery? Your side bothering you at all?”

The girl shook her head. “Not really. The stitches kind of itch, but otherwise I feel fine.”

“Great!” Clarke closed her chart and slipped it back into its spot at the end of the bed. “You’ll feel pretty sluggish for the next few days, and you might experience a little nausea, constipation, headaches, and the like. That’s all very normal, and it should go away within a few days, but if you’re worried you’re always more than welcome to come back in and we’ll have a look at you.” The girl nodded. “Otherwise, you should be back to normal by the end of the month. And lucky for you, you don’t have to change anything about your diet, because the appendix is actually a useless organ!” The girl smiled again. “So, rest up. You’ll be released tomorrow.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Doctor Griffin.” Her eyes flicked to Octavia. “And, um… thank you too, Doctor Blake.”

Octavia beamed. “It was honestly my pleasure. Oh!” She exclaimed suddenly. “Do you wanna keep your appendix? You can bring it home with you, if you want. Show it to all your friends. Gross out your brother.”

Fox pulled a face. “Um… no, thanks. I’ll pass. Seems… a little illegal?”

Clarke shook her head. “Surprisingly, no. Not illegal. Just disgusting.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “’Disgusting,’ please… Clarke, you’re a _doctor_.” Clarke shrugged. Octavia scoffed. She took a step forward and perched herself at the foot of the bed. “So, Fox,” she began seriously, “level with me. You look like a smart girl.”

It was Clarke’s turn to roll her eyes. “Please feel free to ignore Doctor Blake. The rest of us try to.”

Fox bit her lip, looking a little nervous. Octavia ignored it. “Fox, look: I’m trying to help out my girl Clarke, here.”

Clarke groaned. “Octavia, not this again.”

Octavia ignored her. “Now, Clarke says she doesn’t want to go on a date with this sexy new doctor, who just started—“

“Who also happens to technically be my boss. Please keep that in mind.”

Octavia continued to ignore her. “—but _I’m_ trying to convince her that it’s actually a brilliant idea and will set her up for life. Rich wife to take care of her, great healthcare benefits... What do you think?”

“Is it, umm—” the girl paused, chewing on her lip— “is it like… appropriate for you to ask me about your dating life? If… I mean,” she flushed, “if you two want to date each other, you should just do it?”

Octavia chuckled and placed a reassuring hand on the girl’s knee. “Fox, you’re a sweetheart, and I can see why you would be confused — I’m _clearly_ a smoke show — but also, tragically, Clarke and I are just best friends. Also, I’m not her boss.”

“Oh,” she looked surprised, “umm… okay. I guess—”

Clarke grabbed Octavia by the crook of her elbow. “I’m really sorry about all of this, Fox. Doctor Blake had a little too much sugar in her coffee this morning.” She started dragging Octavia towards the door. “We’ll get out of your hair. Try and rest up, and I’ll be back to check on your progress later tonight. Alright?”

“Okay, Doctor Griffin,” the girl agreed, nodding slowly, her eyes wide and her expression stuck somewhere between troubled and deeply confused.

Clarke succeeded in dragging Octavia from the room with only a little protest. Once they were free from her patient’s prying eyes, Clarke smacked her friend on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Octavia yelped. “What’s with you and hitting me, lately? Is this like a _thing_ for you? Because I gotta say, I’m not a fan.”

Clarke shot her a dirty look. “Stop it. You were terrifying her. Also, another thing, _stop_ talking about my love life with patients. It’s weird, and creepy, and it makes it seem like you’re hitting on me. So stop doing it.”

“It is _literally_ the only enjoyment I get out of my job.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “She says, midway through her residency.” Octavia stuck her tongue out. “Nice. Real mature, O.”

The walked instep for a few paces, approaching the nurse’s station behind which Lincoln currently resided, but they only made it a few feet before Octavia turned to her once more. “So…” She said carefully. “You gonna date Doctor Woods now, or what?”

“For the last time, Octavia, _no_.” An idea struck her then, unbidden and all at once, and she had to bite her tongue to tamp down her smile. Clarke threw an arm around Octavia’s shoulders and kissed her wetly on the cheek. “You _know_ you’re the only girlfriend I need.”

Octavia made a disgusted noise and ducked out from under Clarke’s arm. She smacked her on the stomach. “You’re gross. Stop getting your germs all over me.”

“What?” Clarke gasped. “I thought you _loved_ my germs.” She turned towards Octavia and began advancing on her slowly.

Octavia’s eyes flashed. “Clarke…” She warned, her face drawn and serious. “Don’t even think about it.” She held out an arm and started to back away.

Clarke matched her step for step, approaching steadily, her face alight with mirth. “Octavia… _babe_ …” She half-pleaded.

Octavia raised her hand higher, pointing a finger at her friend. “Clarke, I mean it. I’m a doctor. I have access to knives. Don’t even think about—” She cut herself off with a yelp as Clarke lunged for her, cackling with laughter. “Clarke!” Octavia yelled as Clarke grabbed her around the waist. She twisted and writhed, trying to pull away. “Cut it out!”

Clarke laughed brightly, pursing her lips with her eyes closed tight as she bent her head, intent on kissing any part of Octavia’s head that she could reach.

Octavia squawked and giggled, pressing Clarke away, holding her at arm’s length while she bent over backwards and craned her neck. “Clarke, _don’t_ —”

Someone cleared their throat. Clarke and Octavia both froze where they stood, Clarke’s arms comically outstretched, Octavia’s scrubs gripped loosely in her hands from trying to drag her closer.

She let go quickly, retracting her arms close to her chest. Octavia bit her lip hard, her chest shaking with silent laughter, while Clarke made a mental note to murder her later. She swallowed thickly, the tips of her ears burning red with embarrassment. “Doctor Woods,” she said, mouth twisted halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Hi. So sorry about all that. I’m—”

“Doctor Griffin. Doctor Blake.” Dr. Woods nodded to each of them in turn. “I’m familiar.”

Clarke cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Erm… right.”

An awkward silence fell upon the trio. Clarke shifted back and forth on her feet, while Octavia was still struggling to suppress silent giggles next to her. Dr. Woods simply regarded the women across from her with an expression akin to cool indifference. Still, Clarke couldn’t help but feel like she was being sized up, in some small way.

Octavia finally managed to get her breathing under control enough to speak. “How are you settling in, Doctor Woods? Finding everything alright?”

Dr. Woods nodded, her gaze flicking to Octavia for the first extended amount of time. “Yes. Strangely enough, twenty-six years of education has left me with enough skills to read a few signs.”

Octavia coughed to cover her snort. She couldn’t quite cover the grin that pulled at one side of her mouth, though. “Right, of course. Well, if you need any help finding your way around, you can ask either one of us. We’d be happy to help.”

Dr. Woods nodded. “Duly noted,” she said, before sidestepping the pair of them and making her way into the room they had just exited. She paused for a moment, glancing at them out of the corner of her eye. “As you were.”

“Who is she, our commanding officer?” Octavia muttered out of the side of her mouth (once she was certain Doctor Woods was out of earshot, of course). Clarke punched her shoulder. Octavia yelped and pulled away, rubbing at the smarting muscle. “What the hell, Clarke?”

“You are _such_ an ass.”

“I’m not the one who just got caught trying to kiss her coworker.” Clarke punched her again. Octavia recoiled and glared back. “This is domestic violence.”

“We aren’t dating.”

“We live together. Close enough.”

“I’m going to murder you.”

“Aww. You say the _sweetest_ things, sometimes.”

____________________

 _Chemotherapy looks harmless, but it’s really just poison pumped directly into your veins. No one tells you that when you see it happening in TV or movies. People think chemo is just another way to treat cancer (the most effective way). And when you’re a kid it’s just a word. “_ Chemotherapy _.”_

_What it really means is “let’s make you as sick as we possibly can; let’s kill the cells in your body and hope that in the process we kill your cancer cells, too.”_

_It’s never guaranteed to work._

_And it’s never pretty._

Monty gagged and lost the contents of his stomach into the plastic bin the nurses had provided him with. His skin was pale and almost translucent and his bald head glimmered with a sheen of perspiration under the fluorescent lights of the room.

Clarke tried not to pull a face, but she never really took well to vomit. It was the only thing that could really turn her stomach (leftover trauma from a few too many nights out in college, she supposed). “How are you feeling today, Monty?” She said instead, trying to subtly breathe through her mouth rather than her nose.

He tried to grin at her but it came out as more of a grimace. “Pretty terrible and I hate this very much. When can we stop?”

Clarke smiled, not unkindly. “Sorry bud, but we can’t stop yet. It’s only your second round of treatment. Your results seem to be improving but the cancer’s not all gone, yet.”

Monty groaned and flopped back against the bed. He held the bin close to his stomach and Clarke tried her best not to look down into it. “This is the worst I’ve ever felt.”

Clarke reached over and grasped his hand firmly. “It’s gotta get worse before it can get better.” He squeezed her hand weakly. “But you’re doing great, Monty. Really. You’ve got an amazing attitude about this.”

He chuckled. “Thanks, Doc. That means a lot.”

“Do you have anyone who can sit with you while you’re getting your treatment? Or—”

“Oh, hello, Doctor Griffin.” A voice said from behind her, and Clarke whipped around on her heels only to find herself face-to-face with the new attending. Dr. Woods smiled politely at her. “I didn’t know you were in today.”

Clarke nodded. “Murphy asked me to cover his shift. Some sort of emergency at home.”

Dr. Woods quirked her head. “Does Doctor Murphy have many of these… emergencies?” She said the word pointedly, her eyes narrowed slightly.

Clarke bit her tongue and forced herself not to roll her eyes. “He isn’t ditching work. His girlfriend is pregnant and they had a doctor’s appointment they couldn’t miss.” She cleared her throat and readjusted the chart in her hand. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she muttered under her breath.

Dr. Woods made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and turned her attention away from Clarke without another glance. Maybe she had heard her, maybe she hadn’t, but either way she did not respond to Clarke’s pointed jab. Which was probably for the best.

“Do you mind?” She asked, holding out a hand towards the chart in Clarke’s hand.

Clarke passed it over with a click of her tongue. _Could have said please,_ she thought, a little disgruntled.

Dr. Woods made another noise as her eyes skimmed the chart quickly. “Well,” she said, snapping it shut, turning her attention to the patient for the first time, “looks like everything is going well, Mr. Green.”

Monty chuckled wryly. “Tell that to my stomach.”

Dr. Woods nodded. “Nausea is a common side effect of chemotherapy. As is the hair loss.” She used her clipboard to gesture to his glistening head. “But not to worry. If things continue the way it looks like they are, you should be cancer-free by Christmas.”

Monty smiled as brightly as Clarke thought he probably could. “Awesome. Any idea about when the hair will grow back?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not my area of expertise.”

Monty shrugged. “Ah, no worries, Doc. Just thought I’d ask. It’ll probably take years to get the way it was. Ah, Clarke, you should have _seen_ —”

“Well,” Dr. Woods said abruptly, “not to interrupt, but I’m afraid I have more patients to see. Take care, Mr. Green. You’re in very capable hands here.” She spared only a quick glance Clarke’s way before handing her back her chart and sweeping from the room with a flutter of her coat.

“She doesn’t waste any time, does she?” Monty asked ruefully.

Clarke tried to give him a sympathetic look. “She’s very busy. It’s her first week here.”

“Ah,” he nodded, “makes sense. But I’m sure you’re busy, too? Patients to see, lives to save, other bald men to compliment?”

Clarke laughed. “None as nice as you, I’m afraid.”

“I’m glad I’m a favorite, at least.”

Clarke smiled. “I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour, okay?”

“Sounds good, Doc. I got my TV remote; I’m all set.”

He was starting to look a little queasy, so Clarke left the room as fast as she could without seeming rude. She really didn’t want to have to watch him get sick again. Once was testing enough on her stomach, and it had been a very long time since breakfast.

She closed the door quietly behind her, pausing briefly to watch Monty through the window.

It really was tragic. He was a young guy, barely out of college, with shit healthcare and parents who lived too far away to be with him for every treatment. Clarke felt bad for him. He was only a couple of years younger than her. She thought, in another life, they might have even been friends.

She sighed, straightening her spine and turning back to the corridor. Her eyes skimmed the shallow sea of doctors and nurses before she lit upon the one she wanted to find.

Dr. Woods stood at the nurse’s station near the end of the hall, talking quietly with Echo, one of the younger nurses on the staff.

Clarke’s vision narrowed and she stalked forward, a woman on a mission. She drew up to Dr. Woods’ elbow and hissed, “You could have been a _little_ nicer in there.”

Dr. Woods turned to her, blinking slowly. “I’m sorry?”

“With Monty, just now,” Clarke jerked her head back, gesturing towards the room they had just exited. “You could have been a little nicer with him. He’s a young guy who just got diagnosed with cancer. He’s _scared_. He needs compassion, not…” She waved her hand. “Not whatever _you_ gave him.”

Dr. Woods shook her head. “He didn’t need me to be _nice_ , Doctor Griffin. He needed me to be his doctor.” She sidestepped Clarke’s irate form and pulled a stack of charts from a pile at the end of the counter. “As far as I know,” she continued, “I behaved appropriately in that regard, but if you would like to complain about—”

“ _I’m_ his doctor, too, you know.”

Dr. Woods blinked a few more times, pulling to a slow stop. “Yes,” she said deliberately. “And you’re doing a very good job. But try to remember that they’re your patients first, not your friends.”

“He’s not…” Clarke huffed. “I was just being _nice_. You should try it sometime. Might do you some good.”

Dr. Woods smiled tightly, but her flaring nostrils belied her calm nature. “Noted. Thank you for your _excellent_ advice, Doctor Griffin.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to employ it in the future.” She turned back to the stack of charts in front of her, sorting through them slowly and methodically. Clarke stared at her back, eyes wide and mouth open, equal parts angry and disbelieving.

When Clarke didn’t move for a few moments, Dr. Woods looked back over her shoulder. She frowned upon seeing Clarke still hovering behind her. “You’re free to go, Doctor Griffin. You don’t need my permission.”

Clarke clenched her hands into tight fists, took a breath against the hot anger building in her stomach, turned on her heel, and stalked away.

God, that woman was such a _bitch_.

**

After the morning she had had — and her unfortunate run-in with Dr. Woods — Clarke sought out the only person in the entire hospital who could, without fail, make her feel better: Lincoln.

Lincoln was the best nurse on their staff. He was a few years older than Clarke, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. His face was bright and youthful, his eyes always gleaming with mirth. He had a joke for every occasion, a nice story for every encounter, and he was always willing to lend a helping hand, no matter what needed doing. He was always smiling, even when it rained. Clarke thought that that was kind of brilliant.

He was something of a giant of a man, just over six feet tall and built of basically pure muscle, but he was also the gentlest person Clarke had ever met. His hands were soft and always intent on healing. He could single-handedly move every patient in the hospital and could probably bench more than Clarke weighed, but every one of his movements was calculated and soft. He had a deep, booming laugh and more than a few dark tattoos, several of which circled his prominent biceps. His head was always neatly shaved and his stubble always purposefully _un_ shaved. His favorite scrubs were dark blue.

Clarke loved everything about him.

And today, she felt she needed his guidance and expertise more than ever.

So when she found him laid out on her favorite couch in the third-floor break-room, his feet kicked out on the table in front of him, magazine in one hand and mug of tea in the other, she practically whimpered in relief.

He greeted her with a bright smile. “Hi, Clarke. Bad day?”

She groaned and threw herself onto the cushions, curling up into his side and letting his bulking mass engulf her. “ _Such_ a bad day,” she agreed.

Lincoln chuckled and threw his magazine onto the table, wrapping his now-free arm around her shoulders. Clarke sank into the feeling, allowing him to draw her more fully against his side. There was something exceedingly comforting about being cuddled next to a strong, sturdy body. Plus, Lincoln smelled like Old Spice and clean laundry, and those were two smells Clarke absolutely _adored_. He smelled safe, like coming home.

Clarke wasn’t blind; she knew Lincoln was kind of rudely hot. As far as levels of attraction went, Lincoln was perhaps top of the list. Anyone who saw him would agree that he was about as close to ‘prefect’ as a man could get. In another life, she probably would have been insanely into to him.

In this life, however, she regarded him as more of an extremely close cousin; a dear friend; a warm and comforting presence. It wasn’t that he was _un_ attractive, she was just completely and totally _not_ attracted to him — hadn’t been attracted to him since maybe her third week on the job.

They weren’t really close, didn’t really spend that much time together outside of work, save for drinks every few weeks, but Clarke treasured every minute they did spend in each other’s company.

He pulled her a little tighter to him and rubbed her upper arm. “Want to talk about it?”

Clarke exhaled roughly. “It’s just the new attending.”

Lincoln laughed, and the rumble of the sound made his chest vibrate against Clarke’s cheek. “You mean Doctor Woods?” He asked with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yeah,” Clarke grumbled. “She’s kind of a bitch. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

Lincoln laughed again — much too loudly for what Clarke’s sentence had warranted, in her opinion — and he tapped her lightly on the nose. “What did she do, then?”

“She _barely_ looks at her patients when she’s talking to them. She’s very abrupt. Blunt to the point of being inconsiderate. Can’t take a joke. Every time she smiles it looks like it _physically_ hurts her. And she was rude to me, so.”

“I don’t know if I’m the best person to talk about these things with, Clarke,” Lincoln said with another chuckle.

“What?” She sat up quickly, resting a hand on his broad chest. “But why not! You’re _always_ here when I want to complain about things.”

Lincoln winked at her. “Hm, maybe so. But I think I’m probably a little biased, in this instance.”

Clarke frowned. “What do you mean, ‘biased’?”

The sound of a pager going off interrupted their conversation. They both reached to their hips, but in the end, Lincoln lost out. “Sorry, Clarke,” he said, downing his tea quickly and standing from his position. He brought his arms above his head in a loud, groaning stretch. “Duty calls.”

Clarke pouted. “Fine. I’ll go cuddle with someone else.”

He laughed and reached over to ruffle her hair. She slapped his hand away before he could mess it up too badly. “Try not to let Doctor Woods get to you, too much, Clarke. She takes a minute to warm up, but I really think you’ll grow to like her.”

He was gone from the room before Clarke could ask him how he _possibly_ knew that.

____________________

Octavia didn’t make it a habit to fall asleep on the job, even though on-call rooms were provided for occasions just like this — 8 hours into a grueling 12 hour shift that started at 7 p.m. and was set to continue until the next morning. She didn’t like sleeping in the hospital, and generally tried to avoid it as much as possible. The beds were small and cramped, the sheets itchy, and if she was being perfectly honest there were never enough pillows for her liking. Plus, on-call rooms were Bone City for horny doctors, nurses, residents, and interns. Even if the beds _weren’t_ completely disgusting — which she was _positive_ they were — the odds of someone walking in and disturbing her sleep was almost guaranteed.

And if there was _one_ thing Octavia hated more than a sleepless night, it was being rudely awoken from a nap.

So she didn’t, as a general rule, make a habit of sleeping in on-call rooms while she was deep into her shift.

But it had been an achingly slow night, almost painfully so. Bellamy was off and so was Clarke, leaving her without her two most valued work companions. She hadn’t had a single thing to do for the entirety of her shift, and given that it was nearing 3 in the morning and the night seemed unlikely to turn around in her favor, Octavia thought… what the hell. Maybe just this once.

So that was how she found herself in the second floor on-call room at 3:23 in the morning, her hair down and loose around her shoulders, tucked into the terribly scratchy sheets with two terrible, lumpy pillows beneath her head.

The room was dark, and blissfully quiet. After an entire day on her feet Octavia’s brain was finally catching up with the aching of her muscles, and laying down was a blissful relief.

As she lay on her back, arms tucked behind her head and eyes closed, she found that she was really starting to warm up to on-call room naps. She could almost get used to this. It really wasn’t such a terrible time. And at least she got the chance to close her eyes for a few moments.

But as soon as she got comfortable, as soon as she _finally_ began to doze off, the sound of muffled yelling and feet pounding on linoleum floors roused her from her fitful rest.

She rolled over and debated just trying to fall back to sleep for about thirty seconds, but the voices were growing louder, and now that she could tell where they were coming from they sounded distinctly panicked.

Octavia groaned and threw the covers back. She clambered to her feet, her knees screaming at her the entire way up. She paused only long enough to shake the stiffness from her joints before she was across the room, tearing the door practically off its hinges.

The first thing she noticed was that people were running every which way. And while running in a hospital wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary, running in a hospital at 3:35 in the goddamn morning most _certainly_ was.

A familiar figure whipped around the corner at the end of the hall, skidding to a squeaky stop before continuing to tear down the corridor towards her.

“Jesus, Murphy,” Octavia called as he approached. “What the hell happened?”

“Apartment fire!” Murphy called as he raced past her towards the ER, his face alight with anticipation. “There are five busses already here, and three more en-route. It’s messy!”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Octavia muttered, already pulling her hair back into a tight, clean ponytail. She took a second — only a second — to wipe at the sleep still clinging to her eyes before she made her way through the building, already halfway to the ER by the time her pager beeped informing her that that was where she was needed.

 

She didn’t really like the ER She didn’t like the noise or the chaos or the oozing wounds or the bedraggled nurses or the overworked techs. She didn’t like the way it smelled, didn’t like the way it always seemed to be overflowing with impatient mothers and whining children. Also, way too many goddamn people _died_ in the ER for her comfort, and Octavia couldn’t ever help but feel like she was completely useless there. She much preferred the sterile solitude of an operating room, the quiet sort of tension that built around a long surgery, the sheer concentration required, the organized nature of incisions and sutures.

She was a _surgeon_. Nobody got surgery in the ER They arrived at the ER very badly wounded and then were sent to Octavia’s operating table. That’s the way it _worked_.

She _liked_ that. She liked the methodology, liked the order to it, liked the direct chain of events.

There was too much goddamn _noise_ in the ER, and that was on a _good_ fucking night. On a night like tonight, the buzz was practically deafening.

She could hear the cacophony when she was about fifty feet out. The shouting, rushing, the calls for help, the slamming of doors as stretchers burst through them, the beeping of machines, the restless sounds of injured people groaning in pain.

Octavia ground her teeth and pushed open the only barrier protecting her from the chaos. And it truly _was_ pure chaos.

There were at least twenty patients crowded into far too few beds. EMTs seemed to be in a constantly rotating conveyer-belt, with one leaving only for two more to take his place. People were coughing, gagging. There were calls for more oxygen tanks as nurses jumped from bed to bed, cleaning forehead gashes and attaching masks to children clutching singed blankets. There were faces covered in soot and ash, the dark red of oozing blood contrasting only slightly with the dark charcoal of smoke-blackened faces. More than a few people were crying, and in the corner a woman screamed as Murphy and Monroe attempted to reset her shoulder.

It also smelled like a goddamn smokehouse. Which wasn’t great.

“Blake!” Dr. Thaye called from across the room. Octavia, who had been seemingly frozen near the exit, eyes tracing the scurrying patterns of the medical staff like they were ants in an ant farm, jumped to attention.

She strode across the room, drawing up next to a gurney where a young woman lay unconscious, face black with soot, the dull yellow of her thick uniform making her look tiny and pallid in comparison.

“Collapsed lung, probable concussion, smoke inhalation, and a possible spinal cord injury.” Dr. Thaye shoved a chart into Octavia’s empty hands. “I paged Doctor Griffin. Take Lincoln and get this woman to an OR.”

Octavia nodded. She tucked the chart under her arm and wrapped her hands around the guardrail, preparing to push. Dr. Thaye disappeared the second Octavia’s hands hit the cool metal, already well on her way to the next person in need of dire attention.

Octavia looked around, trying to spot Lincoln. She finally caught sight of him gingerly lifting an elderly woman from her charred wheelchair and into a bed by the door.

She started to push the gurney in his direction, but a hand on her arm pulled her to a sudden stop. “Wait!” Someone called. Octavia gripped the railing of the bed tighter, refusing to let go.

An older man in a fireman’s uniform stood next to her, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. His face was caked in dirt and grime, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He had a cracked helmet tucked under his right arm. “Where are you taking her?” He asked quickly, glancing down at the unconscious woman.

“Please, sir, if you want me to help your friend—”

“Sinclair. And she’s not… she’s my _partner_.”

Octavia nodded and corrected herself. “Sinclair,” she said, tightening her grip once more, glancing over the man’s shoulder while she tried to catch Lincoln’s eye, “your partner’s hurt. We have to get her to an operating room as soon as possible.”

Sinclair swallowed thickly. “Are you… will she be okay? I tried to get her out as soon as I could, but it took three guys to lift the support beam off of her, and I—”

“She’s in good hands,” Octavia cut him off, “I promise.”

He nodded, looking pretty badly shaken. “Alright. Okay.” He put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You keep fighting Reyes, alright?” He half-muttered to her, his throat thick with either smoke or emotion. “Your dad would kill me if anything happened to you.”

Octavia gently removed his hand from the woman’s body. “I promise you, Sinclair, we’ll do everything in our power to help her.”

He nodded, still staring down at the young woman’s face. “Her name’s Raven Reyes. If it matters. She isn’t on any medication and she’s not allergic to anything except cats and pollen. No history of heart disease or stroke.”

Octavia smiled grimly. “Thank you, that’s very helpful.” It _wasn’t_ , obviously. Octavia had the woman’s chart, and everything Sinclair was saying was already inside of it. All he was doing was slowing them down. But still, she needed to reassure him, not make him more nervous. “I’ve got her now.” She pushed the bed toward the door and Lincoln appeared at her side almost out of nowhere. The two of them hurried through the double doors and off in the direction of the surgical wing, exchanging no more than a nod in greeting.

“You take care of her!” Sinclair called loudly, his voice already fading behind them. Octavia spared a glance at Lincoln across the woman’s body. His face was drawn and serious, his eyes dark.

Even as they sped through the hospital, Octavia was gripped by some indescribable urge. She dropped her hand to the woman’s shoulder and gave it one long, firm squeeze. “We’ve got you, Raven,” she whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Lincoln glanced at her once, his eyebrows pulling together for only a moment before he turned away from her again. Octavia swallowed and fought the blush that threatened to overtake her face. Because it was _embarrassing_ , saying something so stupid. It was like she was still in med school and this was her first patient, or something.

It was a stupid thing to say, a stupid promise to make — the woman was _unconscious_ , she couldn’t exactly _hear_ her. There was absolutely no point in speaking to her. All she was doing was making herself look like an idiot.

Octavia _knew_ it was a stupid thing to say, and _definitely_ a stupid promise that she couldn’t possibly keep. It was moronic at the very least, and definitely more than a little unprofessional.

She didn’t know what made her say it, but something about the situation made her feel like she had to.

It was stupid, but then again, Octavia had never pretended to be anything else.

____________________


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You think this job is about _surviving?_ ”
> 
> Dr. Woods stared at her with an expression so calculating, so _knowing,_ that Clarke felt the sudden urge to wither beneath its intensity. “You don’t?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of frustrating stuff happening in the comments of this fic, but I’m not going to address them here. I’d rather my work speak for itself. The assumptions can continue or not; only time and further reading will tell you if you’re right.
> 
> I will say that I can’t really do anything about my lack of medical knowledge. I’m sorry, and I’ll do my best to make this as accurate as possible, but I’m not a trained medical professional so you all are going to have to suspend some disbelief in that regard. If that’s going to be too distracting, or if that’s something you can’t overlook, you can feel free to stop reading; I won’t blame you at all. But also, this story isn’t about the intricacies of working in a hospital or the day-to-day of practicing medicine. It’s about the characters and their relationships. The medical stuff is going to play second-fiddle to all of that.
> 
> Also, for the person who commented: Octavia is a main in this story. She’s tagged as a main character, and her relationship is also tagged as a main relationship in the story. Some of this story will deal with her POV.

____________________

She ended up working five hours past when her shift was supposed to end. And, in all fairness, it was _almost_ longer. If any other doctor besides Abby had been leading the surgery, they probably would have let Octavia stay through and see it to the end. But because her best friend’s mother was presiding — a woman who had treated Octavia as nothing less than a second daughter for going on twelve years, now — she made her scrub out at just after noon.

“Go home, Octavia,” Abby insisted, blue eyes concentrating on the task at hand. They had only just managed to repair the woman’s collapsed lung, and the ‘potential spinal cord injury’ Dr. Thaye had diagnosed had turned out to be much more severe than any of them had realized. The surgery had quickly turned into a solemn and complicated affair.

Octavia set her shoulders and clenched her teeth, working desperately to swallow a yawn she felt pushing up her throat. “I’m fine, Abby,” she said when she was finally able to control herself. “Honestly.”

Abby shook her head. “That’s the eighth time you’ve yawned in the past five minutes,” she said, her eyes not wavering from the screens in front of her. “You’re exhausted, and not at your best. And I can’t have you here if you’re not at your best. I’ll have Miller page Harper to come replace you.”

“Abby, seriously—”

Abby’s eyes cut up to hers, glaring. Octavia swallowed thickly. She knew that look. Even with half of Abby’s face obscured by her mask, Octavia _knew_ that look. It was the same look Abby had given her when she found Octavia pilfering from her liquor cabinet when she was sixteen. The kind of measured, _you-don’t-know-what’s-good-for-you_ look that would have been patronizing, had it come from anyone else. “I’m not asking you again, Doctor Blake,” Abby said seriously. “Go. _Home_.”

Octavia clenched her teeth. “I promised her partner I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

Abby’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “And you’ve done everything in your power. So, please, believe me when I tell you that I’m saying this with as much love as possible: get out of my OR.”

Octavia nodded tightly. “Yes, Doctor Griffin.”

So that’s how she found herself stumbling into her apartment at 12:35 — hours after she should have been back — bone-weary and eyelids heavy with impending sleep.

Clarke leapt from the kitchen table as soon as Octavia’s key turned in the door. “Jesus, O,” she exclaimed, rushing forward to help her friend out of her coat. “What the hell happened last night?”

Octavia smiled at her grimly. “Apartment fire. It was a mess. I’m surprised they didn’t call you in. It really seemed like an all-hands-on-deck sort of thing.”

Clarke shook her head. “I pulled a double the day before yesterday covering for Murphy. My mom must have known I’d have been useless last night.”

Octavia groaned as she sank onto their couch. She tried to lift her legs high enough to kick them onto the coffee table, but they refused to budge, practically fused to the floor. She groaned again. “Count yourself lucky, then,” Octavia muttered, leaning her head onto the back of the couch and closing her eyes. “They made me go into the ER. It was a disaster.”

Clarke grimaced sympathetically. “Yikes. Sounds rough. Need some coffee?”

Octavia shook her head, still keeping her eyes closed. “All I need now is to sleep for the next day.”

“Your bed will be much more comfortable than the couch.”

Octavia hummed but refused to move an inch. “Don’t care,” she muttered. “Too far.”

Clarke chuckled. “C’mon, lazy. If you can make it all the way to your room by yourself, I’ll even rub your back while you fall asleep.”

Octavia cracked one eye open, squinting at Clarke’s upside-down image. “I’m not an _infant_ , Clarke,” she sniffed. But still, she allowed Clarke to help her stand from the couch, allowed Clarke to follow her, staggering into her own bedroom, allowed Clarke to pull the shoes from her feet and yank the pants from her legs and tuck the blankets up to her neck. And even though she hadn’t done it all on her own like Clarke had stipulated, Clarke still rubbed her back until she fell into a deep, cavernous slumber.

____________________

Their breakfasts were usually a quiet affair. Neither Lexa nor Anya was particularly adept at either small talk or filler conversations, so their comfortable, companionable silences were some of the things Lexa treasured most about their relationship.

Their breakfasts were usually a quiet affair, but this morning, Lexa found herself chewing on her own lip, tapping her spoon lightly against her bowl of oatmeal, fidgety and restless and bubbling with a sort of anxious energy she was not accustomed to.

They had had a very late night, the night before. And while the messy chaos of a crowded ER was usually a challenge Lexa appreciated, last night had been something else entirely.

She enjoyed the raw battle-field-esque scenario of a crowded waiting room, enjoyed the feeling of swift fixes, of delegating tasks, of moving between the beds of the injured and the sick and tending to their wounds methodically, one at a time, helping and healing and saving as many lives as possible. She enjoyed it. Usually, she _lived_ for it.

She was a good doctor. She _knew_ she was a good doctor. Unwavering in her commitments, swift with her decision-making, her diagnoses were always thoughtfully worked-out. Her work ethic was something she prided herself in. Her professionalism was unparalleled.

But, last night… there were so many _children_ , last night. So many displaced children covered in soot and ash, so many with darkened pajamas and smoke-inhalation and wracking coughs, so many crying silent and not-so-silent tears for their lost belongings, pets, loved ones.

Lexa hated treating children, but not because she hated _children_. Truthfully, she loved them. Always had. She marveled at their bright-eyed innocence, connected with their unabashed and joyful desire to learn, and found a certain amount of solace in the overall simplicity of their emotions. She found them exuberant, animated, and cheerful; their logic perfectly meaningful to them and them alone. Children expressed every emotion so completely and so fully; they almost always spoke the truth, regardless of consequences; and their desire to please, impress, and prove their own worth was something with which Lexa was intimately familiar.

She didn’t hate having young patients because she hated children. She hated treating children because she hated the thought of _losing_ them. She couldn’t stand the guilt involved with approaching a worried mother and having to tell her: ‘I’m so sorry. We did all we could, ma’am, but your child didn’t make it.’

She hated it more than anything.

It’s why she could never work in Pediatrics.

And there were so many _children_ , last night.

And while Lexa would never let it show at work or in the way she approached her job, it left her feeling more than a little shaken.

Maybe that was why she felt so restless this morning. Maybe that was why the silence between her and her roommate — a silence she usually cherished — was making her feel so uncomfortable in her own skin. Maybe that was why she couldn’t sit still, shifting in her seat as she absentmindedly turned her oatmeal over and over and over in her bowl.

After many long minutes of Lexa’s anxious fiddling, Anya finally cleared her throat loudly. Lexa looked up at her and met her angry glare with her best apologetic grimace. Anya rolled her eyes and turned back to the paper in front of her.

But Lexa’s fidgeting did not cease.

After approximately thirty more seconds of Lexa’s fingers drumming nervously against the wood grain of their table, Anya sighed loudly and closed her paper with a slow and pointed motion. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at Lexa with annoyed indifference. “What’s wrong?” She asked coolly.

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?” Anya rolled her eyes so exaggeratedly that Lexa thought, for a moment, they were about to pop out of her skull.

She flushed and cleared her throat. She was never very good about hiding her emotions, with Anya. It was practically second-nature for her to school her expression at the hospital. When she was working, being calm and collected was her accepted baseline.

But at home, with Anya, sitting quietly around their shared kitchen table… it was different, here. She was less guarded. And because of that, it was much harder for her to hide things from her roommate.

But just because she couldn’t effectively mask how she was feeling, didn’t mean she wanted to talk about it. And Anya almost _certainly_ didn’t want her to talk about it either. They weren’t entirely comfortable talking about their personal issues. The way Lexa dealt with the stresses of her job was not something Anya needed to be made aware of. They both valued their privacy too much for that.

So, rather than address the issue at hand, she instead deflected by asking: “What do you know about Doctor Griffin?”

Anya frowned, her surprise clearly showing on her face. “Doctor Griffin?” She asked, bemused, the annoyance slipping from her features to be replaced simply by confusion.

Lexa nodded. “Yes. What do you know about her?”

Anya shrugged. “Not much to tell. She’s been the Chief of Surgery for about six years. Runs a tight ship. No messing around, no funny business. She’s very adept at her job.”

“No, Anya, not…” Lexa shook her head. She paused as she cracked all the knuckles on her right hand. “The other one. Clarke.”

Anya’s brow furrowed. “The resident?”

A swift nod. “Yes. You’ve been working with her longer than I have. What do you think of her?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed momentarily before she shrugged, moving to the fridge and pulling a bottle of water from within its cold depths. “She can be unprofessional. Gets too emotionally involved in her cases. Spends too much time joking around with Blake, in my opinion, but… But she works hard. Knows her stuff.” She twisted open the bottle cap and brought the drink to her lips, taking a long swig. “Nothing against her. A little cocky. But fine.” Lexa hummed in agreement and went back to picking at her food. Anya slid into the seat across from her, reclaiming the spot she had only just vacated. Her eyes narrowed a little as she regarded her friend. “Why do you ask?”

Lexa shook her head briefly, immediately feeling defensive. Anya was looking at her suspiciously, and it was completely unwarranted. “It’s not like _that_ ,” she denied quickly. The side of Anya’s mouth twitched, and Lexa continued quickly, “I’m one of her attendings. I just like to know about the doctors who work for me.”

“Okay,” Anya said slowly, drawing the word out to a comical degree. Or it _would_ have been comical, if Lexa hadn’t found it so infuriating. “I suppose now you want to know about the Blakes? Miller and Monroe?”

Lexa cleared her throat. “That won’t be necessary.”

Anya hummed softly. “So then what’s so different about Griffin?”

Lexa huffed and stood abruptly. She grabbed her plate and scraped the majority of her food into the trashcan by the door before dumping the dirty dishes with a loud clatter into the sink. “It isn’t _like that_ , Anya,” she insisted, rolling her head to crack her neck.

How was she supposed to _explain_? How could she possibly go about probing Anya for more information about Dr. Griffin without revealing the true motivation behind her inquiries?

Anya was bound to think that Lexa’s interest in the young doctor was romantic. And, in a way, her suppositions wouldn’t be entirely unfounded. Dr. Griffin was certainly the kind of captivating beauty that would have turned Lexa into a spluttering, useless mess, were she several years younger and a good deal less composed.

But her beauty wasn’t the reason Lexa found her intriguing. It wasn’t the reason Lexa wanted to learn everything she could about her.

There was something about Dr. Griffin that made Lexa curious, that fascinated her. Her sharp tongue, her quick anger, the way she went about her duties… there was something about her that was both interesting and arresting. She was clearly very intelligent, clearly the most distinguished of her colleagues. She was clearly a bright doctor, and very capable. She commanded a fair bit of respect amongst the other residents, amongst the nurses, and even amongst those who had been working at the hospital for many, many years — though that may have something to do with her mother’s lucrative status; she couldn’t be sure.

But Lexa also got the distinct impression that Dr. Griffin didn’t like being told what to do, that she didn’t like her intelligence or her positon of authority threatened in any way. And that could prove problematic, if Lexa was to continue to work with her. She could prove to be trouble, if she refused to operate within her station, if she continued to challenge authority and speak out of turn.

Perhaps she wanted to learn about her because she recognized in Dr. Griffin a challenging, combative personality. Perhaps she wanted to learn about her because she was powerful and assertive in her own right. Perhaps she wanted to learn about her because it was very obvious that Dr. Griffin did not like her, and Lexa thought it best to know as much as she possibly could about potential enemies, potentially difficult personalities, people who could potentially get in her way. Perhaps she saw in Dr. Griffin something of a worthy adversary, or perhaps a possible ally, if her animosity eventually faded.

The thing was, Lexa could _very_ _easily_ get Dr. Griffin in trouble with her attending. It wouldn’t be difficult at all for her to tell Anya about their confrontation a few days before. She had snapped at Lexa, questioned her decisions, reprimanded her for her personal interactions with her patients. She had spoken out of turn, had acted towards her superior with condescending insolence.

It was not the type of thing Lexa would normally tolerate. Usually, it would have infuriated her. Under normal circumstances it would have left her fuming, indignant, and swift to reprimand. Under normal circumstances she would have immediately admonished the impertinent doctor and reminded her of her place.

But there was something about Dr. Griffin that wasn’t normal in the slightest. She couldn’t put her finger on it, couldn’t come close to explaining why, but…

She didn’t want to get her in trouble.

After a long pause Lexa sighed deeply. She needed an excuse to ask further questions, without making her reasoning too obvious, so she decided on something as close to the truth as she could possibly get, without giving them both away. “Lincoln said she doesn’t like me,” she finally admitted under her breath, so quietly that Anya had to strain to hear her.

Anya quirked an eyebrow. “Is that what this is about? One of your coworkers doesn’t like you, so it’s making you anxious and defensive?” She chuckled. “How very _unlike_ you, Lexa.” And then, with something that sounded annoyingly like she was privy to some big secret of which Lexa had yet to be made aware: “You’ve never cared how people thought of you before.” There was something to her teasing, knowing tone that set Lexa’s teeth on edge.

Her nostrils flared, her shoulders tense and drawn up to her ears. “You can’t… Not everything has a deeper meaning, Anya,” Lexa spat over her shoulder. “You always assume…” She took a deep breath and shook her head. It wouldn’t do to have Anya think she was attracted to someone who worked for her. That was the _epitome_ of unprofessionalism. It was antithetical to everything Lexa believed.

(She ignored the fact that it was a little bit true.)

Anya remained seated, her eyes calculating and cool. “Okay,” she said slowly, “if you say so. I just want you to be careful. After last time…”

Lexa shook her head again. “This is different. It isn’t… this isn’t like with Costia.” Anya nodded, but she still looked unconvinced. Lexa huffed. _How_ could she make her believe without revealing everything? “Besides, even if it _was_ like that — which it _isn’t_ —” (Why on Earth would she say that? She was only making herself look guilty) “—it wouldn’t matter. Clarke is dating Doctor Blake, so it—”

Anya snorted. “ _Bellamy_?” She shook her head. “From what I hear, they slept together once in college but never—”

“No, the other—” Lexa stopped abruptly, rounding on Anya, suddenly curious. “She slept with Bellamy?”

Anya’s eyebrows inched farther up her forehead. “I thought it didn’t matter? Do you care about who she sleeps with, or not?”

Lexa grumbled and crossed her arms over her chest. “I _don’t_. And she has a girlfriend, so—”

“She doesn’t have a _girlfriend_ ,” Anya interjected. “She has a _roommate_.” She stood from the table, dumping her empty bottle into the recycling under the sink. “And if you talked to her for longer than five minutes, you would know that.”

Lexa straightened against the sink, her arms falling to her sides. “What?”

“She isn’t dating Doctor Blake — _either_ of the Doctor Blakes. She’s just… _overly_ - _affectionate_.” She said the word with a scoff, like it left a foul taste in her mouth. “I think it’s completely unprofessional.” A short pause. “But then again, so is fucking your resident.”

“I’m not… we aren’t…” Lexa glared. “I liked it better when you were just my brother’s girlfriend.”

Anya laughed as she weaved her way through the apartment and towards her bedroom. “You can move out whenever you like!” She called from down the hall. “I’d be happy to have this place to myself again.”

“But then who would drive you to work?”

Anya made a rude hand gesture before disappearing into her room with a _bang_ of the slamming door.

Lexa sighed and pressed her fingers to her temple. If Anya continued to perpetuate these ridiculous assumptions, this was going to be a long week indeed.

____________________

“Doctor Griffin!” Octavia called out, racing after the head of blonde hair that had just disappeared into the ladies’ restroom. She slid inside the room ungracefully, panting and a little out of breath.

Abby chuckled at her disheveled appearance. She leaned against the countertop, arms folded over her chest. “You called me ‘Doctor Griffin’ which makes me think that you want to talk to me about something work-related. But you followed me into the bathroom, which makes me think you’re after makeup tips. So, which one is it?”

Octavia smiled a little at the teasing lilt to her voice. “Work, actually. This was just the first time I’ve seen you all day. Sorry, by the way, about barging in on you like this.”

“Serious business, then. Alright, Doctor Blake,” Abby said lightly. “What do you need?”

“I was just…” Octavia cleared her throat and wondered for certainly not the first time whether or not her inquiry was entirely appropriate. “I just wanted to know how the surgery went yesterday. With that firefighter? The one—”

“With the spine injury. I know.” Octavia nodded. “Well…” Abby rubbed at the space between her eyes. “We did everything we could, but we won’t know the full extent of her injuries until she wakes up. She’s been asleep for almost twenty hours, now.”

Octavia swallowed. “Coma?”

Abby shook her head. “No, just some heavy pain medication.”

“Oh.” The relief that washed over her was palpable, and more than a little surprising. “Okay, that’s… that’s good. Any lasting damage?”

“It’s unclear, but… yes. Almost certainly. Frankly…” Abby sighed and shook her head slowly. “Frankly, she’ll be lucky if she ever walks again.”

Octavia felt her knees tremble, like they wanted to buckle under the weight of that sentence, but she bit her lip and strengthened her resolve. She nodded once. “Thank you, Doctor Griffin.”

“She’s a fighter, I’ll give you that much. We operated for almost fourteen hours.”

“She was lucky to have you there.”

Abby smiled, a small, quiet thing. “Yes. Lucky.”

**

Octavia spotted a familiar face exiting a room down the hall and strode over to her quickly. “Echo, hi,” she said as she approached the young woman.

Echo turned, her face brightening with recognition. “Hi, Doctor Blake. What can I do for you?”

Octavia smiled, trying not to let on that she was in something of an anxious hurry. “I was wondering if you could tell me a patient’s room? She was in that apartment fire two nights ago. Name’s Reyes.”

Echo rifled through a few papers in her hand, finally producing a list from near the bottom of the stack. She ran her finger down the column of names before stopping on one midway through the pack. “Raven Reyes, right? Firefighter, twenty-eight?”

“That’s the one.”

“307.”

Octavia released a relieved breath almost instantly. “Thanks, Echo. You’re the best.”

“No problem.” Octavia moved to walk past her, but Echo side-stepped a little and brought herself back into Octavia’s path, effectively blocking her route. “Listen… I was thinking… If you wanted to pay me back, you could maybe put in a good word for me with that brother of yours?”

Octavia scrunched her nose. “Bellamy’s gross. You can do a lot better.”

Echo beamed. “I think he’s cute. Will you, I don’t know… give him my number? Or maybe send him my way one of these days?”

“I mean…” Octavia sighed. “I still think you can do a lot better. But sure. If you want.”

“Thanks, Octavia.” Her smile grew impossibly wider. “I knew you had my back.”

Octavia watched the girl’s retreating form as she bounced down the corridor, and she had to pause briefly to wallow in her own confusion. It really made no sense. Bellamy had half of the nursing staff in love with him, and it was like he barely even had to _try_. “Blech,” she groaned, turning her gaze skyward. “Why did you have to make us _both_ super hot?” She asked the ceiling.

Unsurprisingly, she got no answer.

**

This woman must be _seriously_ freaking popular, because she wasn’t even _awake_ yet and already every available surface of her room from the windowsill to the table by the bed was covered with flowers. There was even a _Get Well Soon!_ balloon tied to the arm of the lone, uncomfortable chair that inhabited the corner closest to the bathroom.

It was upon this chair that Octavia was currently perched, fiddling intermittently with her watch, shoelaces, hairband, and the string of her pants.

She wasn’t even sure what, exactly, she was doing here. The woman was _asleep_. She clearly wasn’t lacking in visitors, if the cards and flowers were anything to go by. It wasn’t like she needed a support system, or… or a _friend_ , or anything.

Jesus, they had never even _spoken_ before. Octavia didn’t even _know_ her. And sure, she had looked inside the woman’s chest cavity, but that was hardly the same thing as _knowing_ someone.

She didn’t know what she was doing here. She wasn’t… she wasn’t _needed_ here. She was useless here. She had actual, genuine work things she could be doing, actual surgeries she could be assisting in, or even old patients to visit and check in with — patients who were awake and could actually engage in conversation with her. There were consultations she could be giving. And, failing that, it was just about lunch time, so at the very least she could find Clarke and bother _her_ for a few minutes.

But she wasn’t doing any of those things. Instead, she was here, in Raven Reyes’ hospital room, sitting in the armchair that was meant for her friends and family, just… staring at her. Like some sort of fucking creep.

A soft tapping at the window startled Octavia so badly that she leapt completely out of the chair. She whirled towards the door, heart hammering in her chest, only to see the bedraggled face of the firefighter from the waiting room last night. He smiled slightly at her and gestured with his eyes toward the door, his face asking a silent question. Octavia nodded immediately, trying to hide both the burning flush on her cheeks and the fact that she felt so… _caught_. So exposed. Like her dad had just walked into her bedroom only to find her clambering out of her bedroom window.

“Hi,” he said in a half-whisper, closing the door softly behind him. He glanced nervously down at the sleeping figure in front of him, clearly afraid of waking her, before turning his attention back to Octavia. “We met the other night,” he whispered. “I’m—”

“Sinclair,” Octavia supplied helpfully. “I remember you.” Her eyes flicked down to the vase of flowers in his hand. “Those are lovely,” she complimented dumbly, for lack of anything better to say. She cringed the moment the words left her mouth, immediately wanting to smack herself. _‘Those are lovely’? You sound like such a fucking asshole._

“Thanks.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite come across. His skin looked a little sallow, his cheeks gaunt like he hadn’t been eating. There was dark bruising underneath his eyes from a lack of sleep. His stubble was pronounced and very clearly unshaven. He looked like he hadn’t been home in two days. “They’re from my wife. But those three—” he pointed to the bouquets lining the bedside table— “those are all from me. And the balloon.”

Octavia smiled. “They’re all lovely.” She had to physically fight off a cringe at her own words. _Will you stop calling everything ‘lovely’ you asshole?_

He nodded, already turning away from her. He placed the newest vase on the dresser, fully in front of the small TV that had somehow managed to remain uncovered in the clutter of the room, before moving towards the bed. He placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “You’re alright, Reyes,” he murmured, bending down and placing a feather-light kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re doing great. Keep it up, buddy.”

Octavia felt suddenly uncomfortable, like she was intruding on a private moment. She fidgeted in place for a few more seconds before shuffling as quietly as she could towards the door. “So sorry to bother you,” she said hesitantly, “I’ll just—”

“No, wait,” Sinclair extemded a hand to her, as if to stop her from leaving. He was too far away to reach her, but Octavia froze in place nonetheless. “Are you the doctor who operated on her?”

“Um… one of them, yeah. I mean, I just assisted. Doctor Griffin did all the—”

Sinclair strode towards her quickly, and Octavia stumbled a little on her feet, worried momentarily that he was about to take a swing at her, but he just reached out and grasped her hand, shaking it firmly and warmly. She relaxed at once. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, “for everything you did, Doctor…?”

“Blake,” Octavia croaked, still shaking his hand, unable to pull away.

He nodded. “Thank you, Doctor Blake. I know… the other doctor told me that there was only so much you could do, that she might not… that she might…” He trailed off, his face twisting into something close to anguish.

Octavia swallowed again. That uncomfortable feeling was back.

And Sinclair _still_ wouldn’t let go of her hand.

“But she’s alive,” he continued in a quiet voice after a moment’s pause. “She’s alive. And that’s all thanks to you.”

“Not…” Octavia flushed. “Not really _me_ , exactly. I mean… I _helped_.”

He smiled and finally dropped her hand. “Thank you for sitting with her. It’s hard for me to stay away, knowing she might wake up at any moment. I don’t want her to have to go through that alone. So thank you.”

“Oh, no I just… I just wanted to check and see how she was doing. I don’t… I can’t stay long. I have to get back.”

He nodded solemnly. “Of course. A doctor’s life is always busy.”

She quirked one side of her mouth. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Sinclair hummed and turned from her, making his way across the cold room to the chair Octavia had vacated at the foot of his partner’s bed. He collapsed into it almost immediately, his body folding in on itself.

Octavia watched him watch his partner, her worry for him making her speak. “Have you eaten anything today, Sinclair?” She asked quietly. “You look like you’ve barely slept in days.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been doing alright, I guess. It’s just hard to sleep, when she’s here.  You know?”

Octavia nodded, even though she wasn’t entirely sure she knew what he meant. A comfortable silence fell between them. It stretched for several long minutes, only periodically interrupted by the quiet and reassuring _beep beep beep_ of Raven’s heart monitor.

Finally, Sinclair cleared his throat. “She saved my life. Did I tell you that?” Octavia shook her head, even though he wasn’t looking at her. It was easier than speaking, and she was worried that speaking at all would break his fragile concentration. She watched the man carefully, but he never took his eyes off of his partner’s face. “See, before Reyes joined the department, I actually worked with her dad. I’ve known her all my life. I taught her how to ride a bike. Saw her grow up, graduate from high school, graduate from college. And when she came to me and told me she wanted to be like her dad, I brought her to my station and introduced her to my captain that day. I worked with her all the way through training.” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “I know it sounds cliché and all, but… after her dad died…” His smile slipped slowly from his face. “I like to think I helped raise her, just a little. I could never replace him, obviously, but… I like to think a little part of me helped shape her.”

“I’m sure you did,” Octavia whispered.

Maybe he didn’t hear her speak, but either way, Sinclair didn’t acknowledge what she had said. He reached out and took Raven’s hand in his own. “I told him I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He made me _promise_. And I did, you know? I promised him I would protect her. Because I was young and he was dying and I… I promised…” He shook his head again. “And then she had to go and be a damn hero, pushing an old man out of the way, saving his life instead of her own. Like my life is worth more than hers. Like she doesn’t have decades ahead of her still.” He bit his lip. Octavia watched a single tear escape his eye and slip slowly down his cheek. “She always was dumb like that. Smartest kid I ever met, but really stupid, sometimes.”

“I think she sounds pretty brave.”

Sinclair finally looked at her. He laughed before reaching up and swiping at the wetness on his cheek. “Yeah. She’ll probably get a medal for what she did in there. That’ll piss her off. She hates having to go to those stupid ceremonies.”

Octavia’s smile was small but genuine. “She sounds like an amazing woman, Sinclair. You should be proud of her.”

He nodded, his smile still sad, but a touch more genuine, too. “I am.” He paused for a moment, his eyes far away, his expression almost peaceful. “You should meet her. When she wakes up, that is.”

“I’d like that. I really would.” And it surprised Octavia, it truly did, but when she said those words, she was saying the honest-to-God truth.

____________________

Clarke wasn’t, like… a _stalker_ , or anything. It wasn’t like she was purposefully trying to seek her out.

Sure, did she keep half of her attention span open, one eye skimming the hallways in case Dr. Woods happened to glide by and grace the mere mortal interns with her godly presence? Sure she did. But it wasn’t because she was _obsessed_.

She had some things on her mind, some things she was hoping to get _off_ of her mind. Hopefully in the vein of some strongly-worded criticisms towards Dr. Woods, hopefully away from prying eyes where neither of them might potentially get embarrassed.

So, when she happened to walk by the third floor on-call room and happened to glance inside and Dr. Woods just so _happened_ to be within, by herself, bent low over a table and scratching notes on a pile of papers, Clarke changed the direction of her path and slipped through the door before she could talk herself out of it.

Dr. Woods glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the door opening and closing. She seemed surprised to find Clarke hovering just beyond the threshold, but not overly so. Her features schooled themselves immediately.

She inclined her head in polite greeting. “Doctor Griffin,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. “Just let me gather my things, then you can have the room to yourself.”

Clarke shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dr. Woods insisted, already gathering together her stack of papers. “I prefer to work in here, where it’s quiet, rather than one of the break rooms. But you need to rest, so I—”

“I wanted to speak with you, actually.”

Dr. Woods froze, and Clarke fist-pumped a little on the inside at the knowledge that she had managed to catch the unflappable doctor off-guard. She quietly finished organizing her belongings before she stood fully. She arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and _God_ , even that motion alone made Clarke furious. She shouldn’t just be allowed to _do_ that, to… to look at Clarke that way. To make herself so haughtily impenetrable, so uniquely untouchable. And it didn’t help that her face was near _perfection_ ; flawless, like it had been carved out of stone. “Oh?” Doctor Woods asked, turning slightly so that she was square with Clarke.

Clarke straightened her shoulders and nodded. “Yes. About the way you deal with your patients.”

Dr. Woods regarded her for a moment, her expression betraying nothing. “You think my ways are harsh,” she said after a moment. Easily, and without accusation.

Clarke nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Woods inclined her head ever so slightly. “Maybe so, but I do what I must. We all do, to survive here.”

“You think this job is about _surviving_?”

Dr. Woods stared at her with an expression so calculating, so _knowing_ , that Clarke felt the sudden urge to wither beneath its intensity. “You don’t?”

And _that_ was a whole load of _emotional baggage_ that Clarke was absolutely _not_ prepared to deal with at the moment, so instead she folded her arms, shook her head, and went on the offensive. “So, what?” Her voice was sharp, accusatory. She reveled in it. It was easier than acknowledging that Dr. Woods might be right. “You just stop caring? About everyone? All of your patients are just… just _puzzles_ for you to solve?”

Dr. Woods looked almost bored with the proceedings, but that only made Clarke’s blood boil hotter. “You have your methods of coping; I have mine.”

“Well, maybe you should try something different. Your methods aren’t healthy.”

Dr. Woods’ nose pulled up in an expression that Clarke would call a sneer, if it had appeared on the face of a person who was actually capable of having human emotions. “ _Your_ methods are crude. Picking fights with your colleagues, having simpering personal conversations with patients, letting them call you by your _first name_ …”

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with connecting with them,” Clarke snapped. “What I do is _real_.”

“Yes, and what I do is very, _very_ fake.”

Clarke huffed. “You know what I mean.”

Dr. Woods gripped the back of her chair, her knuckles white against the red upholstery. “The way you deal with your patients is unprofessional,” she said quietly. “And the way you deal with your colleagues is even worse.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “You’ve barely seen me interact with _anyone_. I _really_ don’t think it’s your place to judge me.”

Dr. Woods raised her chin, only slightly. “And yet here _you_ are, judging _me_.”

Clarke ground her teeth. “That’s _different_.”

“Why? _Why_ is it different? Because it’s you doing the judging? Because you’re right, and I’m wrong, and there’s no other way around it? Snap judgments are only acceptable when they’re _your_ snap judgments; an interaction with a patient is only appropriate if it’s done the way _you_ see fit…” Dr. Woods shook her head. “Forgive me if I don’t succumb to the hypocrisy.”

Clarke practically growled, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Dr. Woods stared at her with eyes that shone with the fire of a tense disagreement. She looked a little flushed, her hair a little disheveled, and she was breathing heavily — an obvious byproduct of the adrenaline surging within her. But there was something in the tilt of her chin, something in the dark recesses of her eyes that made Clarke feel like she was being sized-up. Dr. Woods was looking at her like she was a challenge; some sort of worthy opponent. Her eyes were dark and probing; critical and scrutinizing. She was looking at Clarke like she was something to be picked apart and examined.

Clarke wasn’t sure if she enjoyed the feeling, but either way it left her breathless.

The air between them crackled with anticipation — the anticipation of a fight, of tangible dislike, or something else… Clarke couldn’t be sure.

Still, her pulse pounded in her own ears and she felt hot, flushed, dizzy.

“What _exactly_ is your problem with me, Doctor Griffin?” Dr. Woods finally asked after a few long moments of tense silence. She continued, her voice quieter, “What have I done that has so morally offended you?”

Clarke glowered and set her shoulders. She swallowed thickly around the tightness in her throat. “You walk in the room with your nose so high in the air I’m surprised you can _see_.” She took two steps forward, and Dr. Woods took two back. “You act like you’re better than everyone else, smarter than everyone else.” Clarke continued to advance, and Dr. Woods continued to retreat. “You treat your patients like they’re… like they’re _case studies_. Not people.” The back of Dr. Woods’ thighs hit the bunk bed farthest from the door and she stumbled a little before sinking onto it.

She stared up at Clarke, her eyes owlishly large behind her glasses.

Clarke marched forward until their knees touched. She was breathing heavily, like she had just run a moderate distance, and the way Dr. Woods was blinking up at her from behind her dark frames was doing little to quiet the pounding of her pulse. “And I _really_ can’t stand you,” she finished, her voice almost a whisper, her breath making the loose baby hairs at Dr. Woods’ scalp flutter.

“Do you hate me, Doctor Griffin?” The woman asked, her voice quiet, her eyes steady and relaxed. Clarke could see the vein in her neck jump underneath the skin and thought that, were she to place a hand upon Dr. Woods’ chest, she would surely feel a racing heart.

“I can’t stand you,” Clarke murmured, her eyes fixed on the other woman’s lips. “There’s a difference.”

Dr. Woods’ hands reached out slowly, hesitantly, slipping beneath Clarke’s white coat and coming to rest on her scrubs, right over her hips. “Is this inappropriate?” Dr. Woods asked, her eyes flicking back and forth between Clarke’s own blue gaze and her full lips.

Clarke nodded slowly. “Yes. It is.” But still she bent her head; still she claimed Dr. Woods’ lips with her own; still she allowed her hands to fist in dark tresses, allowed herself to sink onto the other woman’s lap, allowed their bodies to fall backwards onto the empty bed.

When a hand slid up the front of her shirt, Clarke whimpered. When her scrubs were pushed over her head, her pants yanked down her body, she groaned in approval. When Dr. Woods’ supremely talented mouth found her aching, dripping core, she arched completely off the bed.

The sex was rough and more than a little angry. They fought for dominance in every situation, unwilling to admit defeat even in a moment as unguarded as sexual intimacy.

And, _look_ … Clarke still may not like Dr. Woods very much, but… well. She could like _some things_ about her, couldn’t she? Quick, dirty sex in an on-call room didn’t _mean_ anything. It didn’t resolve any of the issues between them, but then that wasn’t why they—

Look, it didn’t prove any point beyond the fact that Dr. Woods was pretty stunningly attractive, especially so when her eyes flashed and her jaw clenched and she hissed hot, angry words in Clarke’s direction. It didn’t mean anything beyond the fact that Clarke wasn’t _blind_.

And it _certainly_ wasn’t going to happen again.

____________________

When Clarke walked into the third-floor break room that afternoon whistling — honest to God _whistling_ — Octavia had no choice but to squint at her suspiciously. Clarke, for her part, didn’t seem to notice. She continued her jaunty stroll, whistling a quiet tune that sounded like it had been ripped straight from a Disney film.

Octavia continued to squint at her, eyes careful and calculating. “What are you doing?” She finally asked, growing weary of her best friend’s complete and utter obliviousness.

Clarke glanced over her shoulder, her lips pursed, head tilted to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you whistling? You _never_ whistle. I didn’t even know you knew _how_ to whistle.”

Clarke threw her a happy little grin over her shoulder, continuing to float through the kitchen between the coffeemaker, cabinets, and refrigerator. “No reason,” she shrugged, pulling a carton of cream off the top shelf. She poured a little into her mug with a flourish that made Octavia simultaneously want to gag and roll her eyes. “Just a good day, is all.”

Octavia didn’t move from her seat. Her eyes tracked Clarke’s every movement, unblinking in their intensity.

It took Clarke a few moments to realize that her friend was unconvinced by her explanation. She peered at Octavia curiously. “What’s up with you? Why is your face doing that thing?”

Octavia’s eyes narrowed to almost nonexistent slits. “You haven’t been body-snatched, have you? Am I about to wake up in the middle of some terrible 1950s sci-fi movie?’

Clarke laughed loudly, her head tipping back with the force of the sound. Octavia recoiled in shock. “You’re funny, Octavia,” she said with an endearing smile. “I’ve gotta run. Rounds to do, and all. Don’t want Doctor Thaye on my ass again.”

She exited the room brightly. Octavia had never seen someone walk _brightly_ before, and the image of it was frankly more than a little disturbing. She peered after Clarke, who had long since disappeared off into the corridor, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Her quiet contemplation was only broken by Echo entering the lounge. “Oh, Doctor Blake!” She exclaimed, a slow smile overtaking her face. “Good, I was looking for you.”

“Echo, hi.” Octavia tried to smile back at her, but something about her previous conversation still wasn’t sitting right. “Have you noticed anything weird about Clarke, lately?” She asked, her eyes flicking from the nurse’s face to the door where her friend had been.

Echo frowned. “No. Not in particular. Why? _Should_ I have noticed something?”

Octavia bit her lip. “No. I guess not. She’s just acting really weird today. Like… like she’s actually _happy_.”

“It’s weird for her to be happy?”

Octavia scoffed. “When she’s _here_? Kind of.” She paused, seeming to remember herself. “Sorry, you said you were looking for me?”

“Oh, right! That patient you were checking on, Raven Reyes, in 307?”

Octavia immediately sat up straighter. “What about her?”

“She woke up this morning.” Echo smiled. “Thought you might want to know.”

“Thanks, Echo. You really are the best.” She pushed back from the table at once, already half-way out of the room. “Can’t thank you enough.”

“Sure thing,” Echo called after her as she slipped into the empty hallway. “Thanks for giving Bellamy my number!”

**

When she got to room 307, it became quickly obvious that she was not the only one who had heard of the firefighter’s consciousness, for she wasn’t the first to arrive. “Oh, Doctor Blake!” Abby called when she noticed her loitering unsurely in the doorway. She smiled and gestured for Octavia to enter. “Great timing. Raven, this is Doctor Blake. She’s one of the surgeons who assisted with your operation.”

It wasn’t like her to get star struck. It wasn’t like her to be at a loss for words. The only two things Octavia valued more than her quick wit and sharp intelligence were her relationships with Clarke and Bellamy — and even then only sometimes, because when Bellamy was being particularly controlling and over-protective Octavia found that she didn’t like him very much at all. But still, the point was that Octavia was not the kind of person who stumbled over her sentences. She always had a snappy retort, a quick joke to shoot off; she was infamous around the hospital for her ability to banter and to tease. She was voted Most Outgoing, Biggest Gossip, _and_ Class Clown her senior year of high school — the only person in the school’s nearly 40-year history to win _three_ superlatives.

She didn’t lose the ability to speak very often, but the second her eyes landed upon the reclining form of Raven Reyes, it was like she had swallowed her own tongue.

Octavia must have stared at this woman while she was unconscious for the better part of 9 hours, and while she would have had to be an idiot not to see that she was kind of _ridiculously_ good looking, actually meeting her gaze, actually being met with an exhausted yet open smile… that was a different beast entirely.

Octavia felt her stomach bottom out with a feeling reminiscent of being thrown off of a roller coaster.

She stood motionless for five incredibly long, incredibly humiliating seconds, before she smiled weakly. “Hi, Raven,” Octavia said quietly, her voice almost a croak insider her throat. She extended a hand. “Nice to officially meet you.”

Raven grasped her hand firmly. (Octavia tried to ignore the way it seemed to burn.) She had a half-smile on her face and a teasing glint in her eye. “Do _all_ doctors look like the two of you? Did I pick the wrong profession?”

Abby chuckled affectionately. “Raven’s already charmed the entire nursing staff on this floor,” she explained to Octavia, who was still trying to figure out why the world felt like it was trying to tip her off the edge. “She’s got a quick tongue, this one.”

Raven winked. “Doctor Griffin, you don’t know the half of it.” Even weak and exhausted as she was in her hospital bed, even though she had a cast on her left wrist and it looked like she was having trouble breathing, her personality was completely disarming. Octavia had no idea what to make of her, of this woman who flirted like she breathed, who had almost died two nights before and yet still found the energy to make joking passes at her doctors.

“I’m old enough to be your mother, Raven.” Abby scolded, though there was no true heat behind her words.

Raven turned her attention to Octavia with what could only be described as a cheeky grin. “What about you, Doctor Blake? Are _you_ old enough to be my mother, too?”

Octavia spluttered. It wasn’t often that women caused her to be so off-balance, but there was something about the blasé attitude of this quick-witted firefighter that had her practically gasping for air. “I… you’re, um… older than me.” She finished lamely, an embarrassed flush already heating the tips of her ears. She coughed, just for something to do. “Sorry, I just wanted to… see how you were doing. Make sure everything was alright.” She glanced at Abby. “But Doctor Griffin is the best there is.” She turned a pained smile towards the woman in bed. “So I’ll just… leave you be.”

She turned on her heel before she could make a bigger fool of herself. “Don’t be a stranger!” Raven Reyes called out, even as Octavia fled her room like a goddamn coward. She flushed a little brighter, her head down and eyes tracking her own hasty footsteps, and knew, almost instinctively, that she was already done for.

____________________

Every once in a while, whenever Dr. Thaye felt that her residents were getting too comfortable in their duties, too lax about their studies, or were slacking off on their readings, she would test them. They weren’t _hard_ questions, not really — just a list of symptoms or a definition of some sort of disease they had to identify — but the tricky part came with the spontaneity of the interrogations, with the sheer inability to prepare effectively. At first these impromptu sessions annoyed Clarke, made her nervous and anxious for those days when Dr. Thaye’s eyes would flash with malicious mirth. But, like all challenges, it did not take long for her to become used to the pop-quiz atmosphere. She was a good doctor, and she knew her stuff. She wasn’t easily intimidated.

Some of her colleagues, however, didn’t feel the same way.

“A genetic defect that presents with anemia and causes copper buildup in the liver and other organs, destroying them,” Dr. Thaye said, eyeing each of them in-turn, her expression probing and critical. Most of the residents tried to avoid her gaze, hoping to fly under the radar, but Clarke met her eyes calmly. Dr. Thaye’s lip quirked, and Clarke knew that somewhere, deep down (though she would never admit it), she was a little impressed with her bravado. “Doctor Griffin,” she said, “can you tell me what this disease is?”

Clarke set her shoulders, smiling slightly. This was easy. She was good at this. It was almost second-nature to her at this point. “Wilson’s disease.”

Dr. Thaye tipped her head slightly, the only indication that she was pleased with Clarke’s answer. “Very good.” She turned her attention to the man directly to Clarke’s right. “Doctor Murphy,” she said, and Clarke felt him shift next to her, already uneasy, “a condition in which the patient speaks in a previously unknown dialect due to stroke or severe brain trauma.”

Murphy blinked, frozen in place. Clarke almost felt bad for him, because she _knew_ he knew the answer — Murphy was a smart enough — but the pressure of Dr. Thaye’s unimpressed glare was nerve-wracking enough to push even the best resident off-balance. “Um,” he stuttered, “I… I don’t…”

“Foreign accent syndrome,” a voice said from somewhere to the right. They all turned, the crowd focusing on Dr. Woods and her perch near the nurse’s station. She hadn’t even bothered to glance up from her chart. Dr. Thaye made a noise in the back of her throat, and Dr. Woods finally looked up. She smirked. “Really, Anya? You’re still playing this game with them?”

“It keeps them on their toes, Lexa,” Dr. Thaye responded. Something in Clarke’s stomach clenched, though she wasn’t sure if it was because of the teasing familiarity in the women’s tones, or the way that they so effortlessly used each other’s first names, or the way Dr. Woods looked, reclining easily against the counter, her hair falling lazily down her shoulders, her eyes bright and for once not hidden behind her glasses. Clarke bit the inside of her cheek to give herself something to focus on that wasn’t Dr. Woods and her unfairly attractive posture.

Dr. Woods — _Lexa_ , Clarke thought, _Dr. Thaye called her Lexa_ — rolled her eyes. Dr. Thaye snorted. “I seem to recall you being quite _competitive_ about this game, back in the day.”

“Well, then I grew up, didn’t I?” Her eyes flicked between the faces of the residents. She paused only briefly, for only half a moment, as her gaze met Clarke’s.

Her face remained impassive. No hint of emotion flickered behind her eyes, no wry smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. But she inclined her head infinitesimally, as a sort of greeting that, had Clarke not been watching her so closely, she surely would have missed.

Clarke lifted her own eyebrows in response, and then that was it. Dr. Woods shot Dr. Thaye one more quiet smile before she straightened her coat. She said, “Well, try not to terrify them too much,” before returning to her rounds.

Clarke wasn’t sure if she should have expected something more from their interaction, if she should have expected a bigger response, some sort of greater recognition. She supposed she should be thankful that their interactions had remained quiet and simple, that there wasn’t any sort of awkward distance between them. She supposed she should be thankful that they had both chosen not to acknowledge anything had happened between them, that it wasn’t extraordinarily obvious that they had slept together. She supposed she should be thankful that they were both continuing their professional relationship as if nothing had changed. She supposed that it was for the best.

She wasn’t sure if she should have expected more, but she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr.](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> “Astuary” is a made up term, coined by Justin Vernon (Bon Iver) in his most recent album — a combination of the Greek term for star, “aster,” and “estuary,” a meeting point between freshwater and saltwater bodies. The line is actually “I’m an Astuary King” from his song _8 (circle)._ I tweaked it, just a little bit.


End file.
